


Parole 1: La Sirene

by GloriaMundi



Series: Parole [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: C17, Gen, Historical, POV First Person, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-22
Updated: 2006-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parole: the conditional release of a prisoner prior to the end of the maximum sentence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parole 1: La Sirene

It's a raw March day with the wind from the north, and despite the spluttering, peaty fire and the pipe-smoke of the old men in the snug, all I can smell is the sea. The innkeeper has brought me the best fare that Corunna can afford. It's not much, so soon after the siege, but I'm grateful for it -- and most grateful of all for the pile of news-sheets that he's just dumped on the table before me. Never mind the mildew, or the ink that blackens my fingers: these papers are the best map I could have.

I smile at the man, but his face seems fixed in a permanent scowl. Perhaps he thinks I'm a spy of some sort. Fortunate that gold has no nationality. Fortunate that I've sufficient wealth to spend it freely in the pursuit of my quest.

"I kept an inn once," I say, trying to sound rough and gruff and down to earth. "Times are hard, eh, Monsieur?"

He spits and swears and waggles his fingers at me, as if to ward off evil. Perhaps I should have spoken Spanish, not French. Napoleon's tricolour still flies over the fort, though, and the faded lettering on the inn-sign reads 'La Sirène', not 'L'Ondine'.

I apply myself to the gritty loaf and sharp, pungent cheese as I read. There's oil and vinegar to moisten the bread, and a cup of sour wine to wash it down. It's not what I've become accustomed to eating, and it tastes of mud and rot, but it's filling my belly while I fill my mind. Over and over again I read of the gallant withdrawal of the English battalions, fleeing north towards this Biscayan port through the worst winter that Spain's seen for decades: of the wounded left behind to starve or freeze: of Sir John Moore's tragic death, here in Corunna.

Maybe the innkeeper's taken me for an English deserter, jumping ship to escape the short rations and brutal treatment that so many Navy men decry. With my hair knotted and tucked under a knitted sailor's cap, a ruff of scarves and comforters about my neck, and this salt-rimed greatcoat covering me from shoulder to knee, with this swagger mimicked from the best, I've tried to seem like any mariner ashore for the winter. I don't know if it's safe for a woman to travel alone through Napoleon's Spain. Not that I'm afraid of any mortal man, any more: but it's simpler to avoid trouble.

Oh, the world has changed. I gnaw on my maggoty cheese and read on. Bonaparte has overrun half of Europe, but the British - Army and Navy - are harrying him, holding him at bay. There's a tattered English _Naval Chronicle_, left perhaps by some ensign or lieutenant who came ashore during the blockade. Its pages tell the same story over and over again, of heroism in the face of overwhelming opposition, of battles at sea and corpses consigned to the depths. And the men who sent them there: Nelson and Napoleon, Wellesley and Soult. This is not the world that I left behind. This world and all its people are new and strange.

As I turn the page, a word catches my eye. A name. A name that, however it's changed, I'd know anywhere.

"On the 14th inst, the notorious privateer _La Perla Negra_, Captain Sparrow, returned to Basque Roads in company with a number of French prizes taken on his cruise from the Azores: chief amongst the captured vessels were _La Sovereine_, 32 guns, and _L'Esperance_ (formerly _La Esperanza_), out of Cadiz, with a cargo of silver and armaments. Captain Sparrow reported that "

But my mind won't focus on Captain Sparrow's report: only the stark incredible fact of his presence, here on the north coast of Spain, not -- I check the smudged date on the front of the newspaper -- not a month since.

I'm close, now. I'm catching up.

I beckon the innkeeper -- he's slow, 'til I let him see the glint of gold again -- and demand to know how long it is since the _Black Pearl_, _La Perla Negra_, was seen in these waters.

"How long, m'sieur?" he echoes, sucking in his breath as though I've asked him some nonsensical question: the weight of all the tea in Cathay, or the uttermost depth of the ocean.

"How many days since this ship is here? How many months?" I rack my brains for another way of framing my enquiry, but it's an age since Mademoiselle's lessons, and French was never my forte.

He says something about 'since' and 'never', but I can't follow it.

"_La Perla Negra_," I repeat, through clenched teeth. (No use in scaring the fellow.) "Le corsair. Captain Sparrow." And I do a little eye-rolling and swaying, in the hope of sparking some recognition within his addled brain.

"Si, si!" he says, grinning gap-toothed. "Here, m'sieur. _La Perle Noir_." And then, in nasal English, "the _Black Pearl_."

"But how _long_ \--"

One of the old men from the snug heaves himself to his feet, groaning, and shuffles over to my table. He exchanges a few quick, guttural words - it doesn't sound like Spanish -- with the innkeeper, and exhales sour smoke. I cover my mouth with my hand as I cough.

"He says, now she is here," reports the old man, in better English than mine host's. His eyes are filmy-pale with cataracts, but he stares at me as though he can see all my secrets. "That ship with black sails, she is in the harbour."

The streets of Corunna are steep and slippery with spring rain, and there's mud everywhere from where the trees have been uprooted for firewood. It's a long time since I've set foot on dry land (not that this is really very dry!) and it's hard to find my footing. I skid and slide down the hill towards the harbour, my mind racing ahead of me. I still can't quite believe that I've come up with my prey so quickly.

The _Black Pearl_ still sports her mourning sails, and she flies no colours at all, though I'm sure that Captain Sparrow has flags of every nation to hand, just in case. Black sails, aye: and they're filling and billowing as they're bent. Even from here, well above the quay, I can hear the creak of the capstan as the men weigh anchor. The tide's not turned yet, and the _Pearl_'s crew could save themselves some labour if they waited. Instead they haul and reef as though the devil's after them.

My eyesight's blurry (though not as dim as it once was) and I can't be sure whether any of the figures on that distant deck is Jack Sparrow. A ship can't sail without her captain, though, and the _Black Pearl_ is making sail, turning her head to the weather, ready to run away.

Jack hasn't changed a bit.

-end-


End file.
